May 24 2016

the out of focus
leanings of louise

and the call of a sky turned crooked

on a day that grows dark like any other

the sun always rises

the sun always rises

the sun always rises

she hears the whispers in the leaves of the tall poplar trees

she has blisters from planting possibility

she is a storm raging gales of regret

she is silent and patient and sometimes

she bends

ever so slightly

towards a house

filled with reflection

and polished

glass

.

.

.

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May 21 2016

my garden grows {1}

.

she nods her head

at everything

.

agrees to nothing

.

.

.


May 17 2016

the prayer

or the belief, at least, that somehow
morning always comes with a sun bold or hidden
bringing new chairs to sit in
beneath a ripe old sky
and gnarled hands knitting hope
by the basket
full
of memory and knotted bits
all the stars you gave
away
and all the sunshine
you gathered

.

.

.


May 14 2016

starched

clean white corona

pulled from hard-packed earth

both more

and less

fragile

than

sky

.

.

.


May 12 2016

daisy daisy

.

and hummingbirds, too

.

tree frogs and sunshine

and a big bowl of sky for breakfast

.

my heart dances on the morning

when spring came to town

.

.

.


May 10 2016

hey, jupiter

i’m pinning all my hopes on you
tired of this ride and this blue tide and
this ancillary stream
of consciousness
you pull my way
every day
may
slips away
weeds twining
up parallel ankles
everything’s growing
and this mud is downhill shifting and
i’m pinning all my hopes on you

.

.

.


May 5 2016

opening, again

Comfort zones. They get tighter as we get older, much like that favorite pair of jeans. We get set in our ways, and we like that, mostly, we find comfort in routine and pattern and the familiar.

But life is too complicated to allow us to stay in any one place for very long. Just when we settle in and start feeling all warm and fuzzy, something happens, something changes, and we have to learn how to move through life all over again. And I’m okay with that. It keeps things interesting at the very least.

We go through phases. And they’re called phases because they are slices of time that have a beginning and an end.

The leaves on the oakleaf hydrangea just outside my studio window are just about to open. Dozens of buds waiting for just the right moment. Each one unique, if you look closely, yet all part of the same mother plant. Yes, that’s a metaphor. A nice reminder to myself this morning, a sunny moment in a week that’s been filled with clouds both literal and figurative.

I am learning new things. It is making my brain hurt, which happens as you get older. My body is holding me hostage with hormones, and I keep reminding myself that I am becoming. Moving on. Getting ready to open to a new season of life.

Pfft. That makes it sound pretty, and quite honestly, it’s not. But it’s going to happen just the same, and I’m going to embrace all of it, even the rage. (Yes, there is rage.)

Maybe you lose something as the years go by, bits of innocence and wonder, but you don’t forget they exist.

I think.

Maybe I’ll find my way back, or perhaps I’ll end up in a different place altogether. Yes. I’m pretty sure that’s the answer.

But I’m still asking questions. And I’m still going to open, even when it is painful.

Because there is sun to feel on my face, and a garden to plant, again, and all these people to love with the heart of a crone.

Reasons enough to spread my arms wide.

Reasons enough.

.

.

.


May 3 2016

same landscape,
different day

and you cling to the thread of recognition
stitched up your arm proclaiming you
mended

when torn is what you are

not broken

torn and sewn
back together
with the needle
of forgiveness

and these aren’t neat, tiny stitches
these are meant to leave a scar

a mark you’ll wear as badge
as you walk into battle

fragile and crumbling
paper thin

unyielding

.

.

.


Apr 30 2016

dead end unknown

what’s around
the next corner is always mystery

walk anyway
heart open

be a little naive
on occasion

grin at corny jokes
and let a child win

there are a million second chances
and there are no second chances

the path always starts at the beginning
but we never know where it ends

keep walking

sing

spread your arms wide

twirl in circles

be the fool
filled with wonder
be the fool

laugh like there’s no
tomorrow

.

.

Whew, I didi it! A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month: Day 30
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge
Today’s theme is PAD’s write a dead end poem.


Apr 29 2016

haphazard recollection

i remember:

racing barefoot through wet grass at first light

northern lights glowing green above a broken picnic table

three moons on three nights

innocence and wonder (lost and reclaimed)

the sound of my own heart breaking

forgetting to look both ways

holding the feather of your hand in a sea of rough sheets

scattered petals on a bridge leading forward

the owlish sound of love

being here being there being here

remembering

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month: Day 29
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge
Today’s theme is a combo of NaPo’s I remember: and PAD’s write a haphazard poem.